I Thought I'd Be a Natural. I Was Not.
On nerves, new muscles,
and letting yourself be a beginner.
A good portion of my childhood was spent in preparation for my Broadway career.
My sister and I often staged backyard productions for the neighbors at 10 cents a ticket. A kind of Solid Gold Dancers meets Donny & Marie meets Rogers & Hammerstein extravaganza.
We employed the neighbor kids as back-up dancers and assigned our 3-year-old brother the role of stage manager.
The rest of my childhood continued in a similar fashion.
However, despite the years of singing, dancing and playing the piano, I never did make it to Broadway, but I did grow up comfortable in front of an audience.
Or at least…I thought I was.
About a year after I started my food blog, La Pomme de Portland, I received an email from a producer at our local morning show, AM Northwest.
It wasn’t very long. Something like: “This is [so-and-so], mother of [so-and-so] who’s in your daughter’s class. I’ve been following your food blog and wonder if you’d like to come cook on television.”
Television? My heart beat a little faster.
This was before Instagram. Before everyone had a platform in their pocket. Television still felt…official. It held the allure of being introduced to a wide audience of viewers who wouldn’t know you otherwise.
I glanced at the Tina Fey quote taped to my computer: Say yes, and you’ll figure it out afterward.
I replied, “I would love to."
Then I immediately asked 47 follow-up questions.
What should I wear?
What should I make?
What time should I arrive?
Will there be a stove?
A sink?
Parking?
She kindly assured me: “No stress. Just show up. The host will take care of you.”
No stress?
For someone who scouts photo locations for clients weeks in advance, has a spreadsheet for everything in her life, and maps out five-year plans in Asana, this felt mildly…catastrophic.
At that particular time in my life, I spent a great deal of time watching Martha, Ina, and Giada. With no experience being on TV, I leaned into what I'd learned from watching their cooking shows.
I decided to make my Peas and Pancetta with Bowtie Pasta which I made often for my family and didn't require a large number of ingredients.
A few days before, I started laying out everything on my dining room table. I gathered my prettiest little bowls, each with a sticky note indicating what would go in them. Two cutting boards. Two knives. Linen towels. A Le Creuset pot. A script with talking points.
It looked very Martha. I felt nothing like Martha.
My hubby has learned over the years that when I've entered a "preparation and planning zone" to give me a wide berth. Standing a ways off, he surveyed the mountain of supplies on the table and the various plastic bins and coolers on the floor.
"Wow! Look at you go. You're gonna kill it."
Then, after another look around, he asked, ”Just curious…what’s your plan for getting all of that from the car into the studio?”
Without looking up, I said, "Oh I'll figure it out. I'll probably just make a few trips."
The night before the show, I woke every few hours going over the script and the order of ingredients. Four cups of frozen peas. One tablespoon olive oil. One-third pound pancetta. One teaspoon salt.
In the morning, my hubby came out to the garage with our littlest while I was loading the car in a kind of overly-caffeinated, robotic trance.
“Hey, we’re taking off to get this big boy to preschool. You got this!”
He loaded the preschooler in the car and pulled a large item out of the back.
“I thought you could use this. Just in case.”
He handed me a collapsible hand truck. I would have cried in that moment but…mascara.
He hopped in the car and said, “I’m recording it! Can’t wait to watch tonight.”
As I waved goodbye to them, I took a long deep breath in and out.
Not following my own usual protocol of scouting a place before the appointed day, I drove across town and became entangled in a maze of unfamiliar one-way streets.
The clock ticked away with every wrong turn. By the time I found the guest parking lot all 5 spots were full.
Of course they were.
I found street parking two blocks away and silently thanked my hubby for his foresight.
With the hand truck loaded and secured, I walked backwards down cracked city sidewalks and dragged a wobbling tower of bowls and bins toward my television debut.
Buzzed in to the building, the producer came out to greet me. "Good morning, Carrie! Come on back and I'll get you situated.”
She took me through some double doors to a large, dim space full of props and furniture from all the different decades the show had been on the air. A door on the opposite end opened into the television studio.
In a hushed voice, she said, "This is your cooking counter. You can set up here and when it's your turn, we'll wheel this onto the set. You have about an hour before you go on.”
An hour? I wasn't sure my nerves would make it that long.
"I need to boil some water. Is there somewhere I can do that?" I asked.
"Oh, we'll need to get the gas hooked up. I'll send back one of my stage managers to help with that. You're going to do great.”
And with that I was left to set-up.
I unloaded as quietly as I could. I laid out the cutting boards, poured my pre-measured ingredients into their appropriate bowls, and set them up in the order they would be used, just like Martha.
Through a crack in the double doors, I could see the brightly lit studio, multiple cameramen, different guests chatting with the hosts, stage managers coming and going. The show was live and I wondered how many thousands of people were watching.
Thirty minutes passed. Still no gas.
I silently cursed myself for choosing a recipe that required cooking pasta. You should have pre-cooked it at home. It felt like my whole body was starting to shake. Why so much drama Carrie?
Finally one of the stage managers popped in to check on me. With bright eyes and a forced smile, I explained the gas situation and she said, "Oh, I didn't realize. Let me get that set up for you."
I managed to get the pasta into the water in time to cook and just when I thought my nerves might freeze my face in place, the producer came back to get me.
“Okay Carrie. Let’s go.”
We pushed my station out to a mostly empty studio.
She explained, “The live portion of the show has ended and we’re taping this for a later broadcast. You’ll be with our host Dave Anderson and you’ll have about 6 minutes. Let’s get you mic’d up.”
While I’d never met Dave Anderson personally, he was a well-known local stand-up comedian and radio show host along with his AMNW duties.
“Hey Carrie! What are we making today?” Dave asked with a big smile and an upbeat tone.
I walked him through my plan.
“Sounds great! Hopefully I won’t slice my fingers off chopping shallots.” He laughed.
And we were on.
“Good morning, we’re here today with Carrie Minns of La Pomme de Portland…”
I don’t remember much except focusing on Dave Anderson, never looking at the camera, and talking with a seriousness that suggested I was teaching brain surgery rather than sautéing shallots and pancetta.
“Great job, Carrie,” the producer said after Dave signed off. “Would you want to do that again?”
“Well, if you’re sure you want me back then…yes. Thank you.” I heard myself reply with a forced laugh.
“Let me help you get packed back up,” she said.
In a matter of minutes my hand truck was loaded up and I was wheeling it out the back doors.
And with that, it was all over.
The segment aired at 1am. I made my television debut to the QVC folks up in the middle of the night channel surfing.
When I watched back the recording, I was clearly nervous. A little stiff and a little too serious. But Dave Anderson’s humor lightened up the whole thing.
Despite my stiffness, the producer (now a friend) asked me back.
And then again.
Over time, my jitters and stiffness disappeared. My cooking made it onto the regular daytime show hours. Eventually I became almost too comfortable on set—leaning against the counter, making jokes to the camera, laughing my loud laugh.
I ended up returning as a regular cooking guest for about 10 years.
But that first day?
I thought I would be good at it immediately, especially considering all of that early prep for my Broadway career.
I wasn’t.
Being comfortable on a stage isn’t the same as being comfortable on a television set. Writing a blog isn’t the same as speaking into a camera. Wanting something isn’t the same as having practiced it.
I’m still reminding myself of that…to let myself be a beginner, even when I feel like I shouldn't be.
Even familiar dreams require new muscles.
Cheers,
Carrie
This newsletter is dedicated to Dave Anderson - one of the funniest, kindest people I’ve ever known. Who continually encouraged me to publish my first book and who left this world far too soon.
Peas and Pancetta with Bowtie Pasta
A family staple from my La Pomme de Portland days. Below you'll find the original version and how I make it now.
How I Make It Now
When I first wrote this recipe, I was feeding three growing kids plus me and the hubs. I spent an enormous amount of time cooking back then.
Now the house is quieter. And so is my approach to dinner. I've simplified this recipe considerably. Here's what's changed:
The pasta: I rarely make it anymore. It’s too much effort with the boiling, draining, and sticky pot cleanup. Instead, I make a double batch of rice in my rice maker. Set it and forget it.
The pancetta: I skip it. Instead, I slice two 4-packs of Chicken Apple Sausage into medallions and sauté them with the shallots in a little olive oil. Just as satisfying.
The peas: No more cooking them before everything else. I keep a bag of Costco frozen organic peas in the freezer, pour about 4 cups into a shallow Pyrex dish, add 1/8 cup of water, cover with a towel, and microwave for 6 minutes while the sausages are sautéing.
The result? Rice topped with sausage, shallots, and peas. Same delicious meal, half the effort, plenty of leftovers.
Original Peas and Pancetta with Bowtie Pasta Recipe
This is one of our favorite go-to meals. It’s quick to make and I almost always have a bag of peas in the freezer and pasta in the pantry. If I don’t have pancetta, I substitute a package of bacon. Oh darn, bacon.
4 cups frozen petite peas
1 tablespoon olive oil
⅓ pound pancetta, diced
2 large shallots, peeled and diced
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 pound dried bowtie (farfalle) pasta
1 cup pasta water
More salt and pepper, to taste
Freshly grated Parmesan cheese In a deep sauté pan with a lid, cook your frozen peas in boiling water until tender, about 3 minutes. Drain them in a colander and spray with cold water to stop the cooking.
In the same sauté pan, heat your olive oil, add in your pancetta, and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until golden brown and crisp-edged, about 6 to 8 minutes. Reduce your heat to medium-low, add in your shallots, and cook another 3 to 4 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Meanwhile, fill a large pasta pot with water, a pinch or two of salt, and bring to a boil. Add in your pasta. Cook your pasta according to directions on package.
Before draining the pasta, reserve 1 cup of the pasta water. Pour ½ cup of the pasta water as well as the cooked peas into the sauté pan with the pancetta and shallots. Heat mixture over low heat, gently tossing together. Stir, taste, and add more pasta water, salt, and pepper, if needed.
Serve over bowtie pasta with freshly grated Parmesan cheese on top. Enjoy!
PS: If you forget to reserve the pasta water, never fear. Just add some water, or a little chicken broth if you have some hanging out in the fridge.
Yield: Enough for a family of 5 with a bit leftover. Perfect for a thermos in a lunchbox the next day.